


Obstacles

by Rovardotter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blame Neliore, Corporal Punishment, Dark Ned, Evil Ned, First Kisses, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, M/M, Ned is just bad news okay, Rape/Non-con Elements, The Author Regrets Everything, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:16:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovardotter/pseuds/Rovardotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old wounds revisited, new wounds deepened, it was their secret joust: how long Theon could keep his dignity before his warden broke him apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let's Say, Sunshine for Everyone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neliore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neliore/gifts).



> This is for sweet, wonderful Neliore, who really deserves so much better than a horrible, terrible gift. I hope you enjoy this, my dear, and I still blame you for everything <3
> 
> Many, many thanks to brave [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), who risked both reputation and name by agreeing to beta this pile of despair. Also, soft womanly kisses to lovely [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa), who patiently listened to crazy ideas about time travel and helped me breathe life into this Frankenstein's monster. Love you all!

The sun was still hanging high in the afternoon sky, but it had brought no warmth into the solar, its colour pale grey. The wind slightly ruffled Theon’s hair as he bent, yet again, over the desk. He touched his cheek to the old hardwood, could feel every scrape and scratch etching itself into his skin.

“Breeches down,” said Lord Stark.

It was becoming easier to go through the motions. A movement following a movement, leaving no room for stray thoughts: untie his laces, pull his breeches to his ankles, fold his tunic up, spread his legs. Theon fixed his eyes at the window, listening as his warden’s breeches loosened, his belt slipped off. The moment of waiting was always the worst. From the inner courtyard he could hear fragments of conversations. The world kept rolling away, oblivious, scullery maids hurrying to the kitchens, Robb and Jon placing their swords back in the armoury, while Lord Stark’s heavy boots circled behind him. Theon imagined the thick, supple belt between his warden’s fingers, could almost smell its heavy leathery scent. Would he use the buckle end this time? Theon drew a deep breath, busied his mind with an inventory of his possible sins, as though it mattered, as though it ever changed anything.

“Hold still,” said Lord Stark.

Theon always seemed to wind up like this, ever since he was a small boy, with coarse oak under his stomach, skin bare to the chilly air. His warden’s chastisements, however, grew more frequent and more merciless after Lady Stark had left the castle. Sneaking out under the cover of night with her children, she scurried back to Riverrun, leaving her firstborn behind. “For my protection,” Robb had glumly told Theon. “Father cannot be rid of me if I am the only one left.” Mayhaps that was the kind of lie that soothed Robb Stark at night, just like Theon needed to tell himself there was a reasoning behind his punishment, that in some way he’d brought this on himself. Otherwise there was only the truth left: Robb was a cyvasse piece in his parents’ power struggle, and Theon but a convenient receptacle for his warden’s anger. Lord Stark punished him because he knew no one would care. No person in Winterfell would shed a tear for a Greyjoy hostage.

That wasn’t quite true, though, was it? There were two boys who would care, two boys who must never learn the truth of what happened each afternoon at the castle’s solar.

“We begin,” said Lord Stark. The belt landed with a hiss on Theon’s backside.

Not the buckle, then, at least that, but the shock of the first lash had barely given way to a burning sensation before the belt hit again, harder, over the same spot. Theon gritted his teeth, swallowed the whimper caught on the tip of his tongue. Three more flogs, Lord Stark stroked swift and harsh, with admirable precision. Old wounds revisited, new wounds deepened, it was their secret joust: how long Theon could keep his dignity before his warden broke him apart.

“Theon,” said Lord Stark. A bird flew so terribly close to the window. Someone outside laughed.

“My lord.” Theon’s small, worthless victory, how his voice did not waver, but his hands quivered instead, curled into fists, hanging at his sides.

“Tell me,” said Lord Stark, and his belt swished lower, cutting across Theon’s upper thigh in such sharp pain that a sudden wetness clouded his eyes. “What do you regret the most?”

Theon blinked the tears away, set his jaw hard. The lashes, not awaiting his response, kept raining down. “I don’t know, my lord,” he murmured, perplexed. He didn’t understand the meaning of the question, no more than he understood any of this, and his honest answer was hidden in memories that he kept to himself, that no pain could force him to share: barren stones and sea foam, winds of brine, his mother’s gentle voice. Her fourth child, she said, he slipped into this world without complaint, without a wail. She took him into her arms, put him to her breast, and he opened clear blue eyes, simply thankful to be there.

“I’ve always regretted missing my eldest son’s birth,” said Lord Stark. “Robb was born four weeks too early. Did you know that?”

Theon had to catch his breath before replying, as the belt crisscrossed repeated patterns over his ass, leaping from cheek to cheek in a livid dance. And the sounds, always those sounds, making Theon afraid to close his eyes: the air whooshing with every lash, smacks of leather into soft skin. And the whiff of blood.

“No,” he started, almost choked, “my lord.”

“Four weeks. Many babes do not survive that,” said Lord Stark. “Spread your buttocks, Theon.”

This time Theon couldn’t help it, a sniffle slithered out, and it wasn’t the red-hot pain, but how shattered he felt as he placed his shaking palms over his backside, pulling the skin apart, exposing himself, so vulnerable, so humiliated, to his warden’s eyes.

“I had been away at war,” said Lord Stark. His memories and his fury had given renewed force to his strikes. The belt hissed, once, twice, again and again, over Theon’s thighs. “But a raven arrived from Riverrun. Do you know what it said?”

An abrupt respite. Theon counted the seconds, his legs atremble. He felt wet drops sliding into his palms. The belt still caught him by surprise (always a shock, always those sounds), striking right between his buttocks. The dam broke at last, his resolution crumbled. “No.” His tears flowed into the wood of his warden’s desk. “My lord.”

“A big, healthy baby boy, with light hair and eyes,” said Lord Stark, and then repeated, as though Theon was too thick to recognise the implication of his words: “Born four weeks too early. A big, healthy baby boy.”

The sept bells rang, announcing the approaching dusk, and Theon’s fingers stiffened over his skin when he heard his warden edging towards him, saw the belt placed on the desk. His lips wobbled, clogging up with sobs, wails, pleas. There was no mercy, the cold sun never heated this solar, and the end of this pain just meant the beginning of a different one. Theon would not beg for his own sake, but even humbled as he was, his buttocks spread, his warden’s callous hand splaying over his back, pinning him down, Theon still had to think of the boys, he still had them to protect.

“Robb is a Stark,” he said, striving hard to keep his voice even. “He is loyal to you. We all are, my lord.”

“Are you, Theon?” said Lord Stark, softly, so softly, his thigh planted between Theon’s legs. “How much will you struggle this time?”

“I won’t,” Theon mumbled. The sept bells rang once more, and his warden pressed into his bruised skin. He shook with pain and shame. He wanted to rise, escape, crawl into a corner searching for residues of his mother’s warmth (but the boys, the boys). “We are all loyal,” he implored instead. “We didn’t leave for Riverrun. We stayed. Robb stayed.”

“No one is loyal,” said Lord Stark. He swatted Theon’s hands away from his buttocks. “This castle is full of Tully spies.” Theon let his arms dangle down the desk, silent tears wetting his cheeks as his body became an object for his warden to position to his liking, to hurt and possess. “And she fled with my trueborn children, left me with her bastard.”

“Your son,” Theon insisted.

“Someone’s son,” said Lord Stark, “but not mine.” His thick finger circled around Theon’s hole, still so sore from the last belt lash. That was the most shameful, worse than hard pushes and shoves, how his warden would play with him before, how he slid his finger inside him, opening Theon for his sick pleasures, while still discussing politics as if they were seated at the Maester’s council. “Luckily, I have another one.”

Theon’s breath hitched in his chest as his warden buried his finger deep inside him, and it wasn’t just the complete invasion, but the thought of Jon, quiet, sullen Jon, so prone to fits of anger, and how defenceless the boy truly was. Because while the North would care for Robb’s fate, Jon was invisible to their eyes even more than Theon was.

“My lord.” His voice was a haggard pant as his warden’s finger twisted, ploughed into him, before it slowly drew out. “If you legitimise Jon, he wouldn’t last a day. The North would never accept him as Winterfell’s heir.”

“Is that your advice, Theon?” said Lord Stark.

“It is true,” Theon persisted, and a cry of misery escaped his lips when he felt the full length of his warden’s cock forced into him, thrust after agonising thrust. His arms uselessly rose, and he clutched with shivering fingers onto the desk. “And Robb is your flesh and blood. He takes after you.”

Nothing could be further from the truth, and Theon bit hard into his lips until his vision blurred as his warden slammed fully inside of him. No, not Robb, who still so naively assumed that his parents could settle their dispute, that peace could return to Winterfell once more, Robb who saw the good in all people. Would he even believe Theon if he told him of this, of his lord father’s hands tightening over Theon’s waist, the lewd slap of skin against skin, his cock boring deeper into him, claiming his loyalty the only way he could. No, not Robb, he would not believe. He must never know. They both must never know.

“We shall see about that,” said Lord Stark, and his words were now slightly huffed, his skin warm and sweating against Theon’s bruises, rubbing on the swollen welts of his ass and thighs each time he plunged lower. “He will soon have a chance to prove himself.” He pulled out completely, then forced his way back in with a heavy pant, and Theon’s mouth felt bitter with blood, or bile, he did not know, and was it from the violation and pain, or the constant worry for the boys, or mayhaps from the knowledge that his warden was nearly spent, but not before – not before –

Lord Stark stopped moving. His hand slipped from Theon's waist, closed on his inner thigh, again rearranging him, spreading him farther apart, and the way his warden was angled now inside of him – Theon squirmed, something stirred inside of him, then broke into so many tiny pieces that Theon doubted whether he could ever be repaired at all.

“You know what to do, Theon,” said Lord Stark.

Theon did, and he earnestly cried now, past caring, as his hand left the desk and wrapped around his cock. His warden gave a gentle push inside of him, and Theon followed the movement, fingers sliding over his length. Even his actions weren’t his anymore. And this, worse than waiting, more shameful than fingers toying with him, yes, this, how quickly he spent himself in desperate sobs, crashed between Lord Stark’s weight and the scuffs on an old oaken desk in the solar of Winterfell.

Theon finally closed his eyes.

The sun was almost lost between the far hills to the west as he shakily rose from the desk and pulled his breeches up, his warden’s seed slowly dribbling out of him as he stood. Lord Stark was already seated at his chair, his face still flushed from his efforts, occupied with his parchments and letters. Theon avoided his eyes as he tied back his laces and wiped his damp cheeks with his sleeve.

“I shall see you at dinner, Theon,” said Lord Stark.

“Yes.” Theon’s voice was barely a whisper. “My lord.”


	2. But As Far As I Can Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was many a time when Theon wanted to loathe his warden’s eldest son, force him to share his anguish, take out his frustrations on Robb in turn. The thought of a revenge so vile, of becoming his warden, tasted sickeningly sweet in Theon’s mouth. But when he looked into Robb’s light blue eyes, he saw just what Lord Stark apparently did: nothing of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this horrible gift, my beloved Neliore <3 
> 
> Many Bolshevik potato thanks to wonderful [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife) and capitalist persimmon kisses to lovely [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa). I love you both forever for tolerating me and my editing madness and for helping me so much <3

The moon shone its pallid light into the bedchamber, shadows dancing long and ghostly over the stone walls. Theon stretched out on his side, the balm he’d rubbed into his battered body soaking into the wool of his clothes. Jon, seated at the foot of the bed, legs tucked under his chin, silently handed him the wine pouch. Distant gusts howled, autumn snow gathered over the window sill, and Theon found himself grateful for the absence of words.

Robb had just removed his boots, and he sighed heavily as he released the upper laces of his tunic. “Make room,” he said, and Theon shuffled aside to allow the boy to slump over the furs on the bed.

There was many a time when Theon wanted to loathe his warden’s eldest son, force him to share his anguish, take out his frustrations on Robb in turn. It would have been easy to exploit the boy’s trust: corner him in a secluded chamber, let him be the one bent over a desk. The thought of a revenge so vile, of becoming his warden, tasted sickeningly sweet in Theon’s mouth. But when he looked into Robb’s light blue eyes, he saw just what Lord Stark apparently did: nothing of his.

Robb took hold of the wine, and his hands were shaky as he gulped down a hefty swig. Jon rose to his knees, furrowing his brows, studying his brother’s face. “Where were you?” he asked. “Couldn’t find you after dinner.”

Robb wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he offered the pouch back to Jon. “Father called me into his solar,” he said.

Theon had wondered just as many a time whether any of the boys had been subjected to the same treatment as him. True, so far he could see no evidence of it, but he knew how easily masks could hide the most disfigured faces. And this, Robb’s slumped shoulders, his obvious agitation, caused Theon a pain almost as sharp as the wounds left on his skin.

The wine had passed a full circle between their hands before Robb carried on. “Father said…” He hesitated, his mouth curved down. “Maester Luwin has been sending ravens to Riverrun.”

“Gods,” Jon spluttered. “Not the Maester.”

Robb took another sip, then shifted to lie on his back. A few wine drops trickled down his lips, but he made no move to clean them. “Father will have him arrested come morning,” he said. “Take off his head.”

Theon felt sickness climbing up his throat, one that had naught to do with the wine. He could still recall the horror in the old man’s eyes the first time he’d treated his wounds, and his wrinkly hand patting Theon’s hair, gentle as a mother’s touch. The Maester knew, didn’t he, and he was the only soul left in Winterfell who would show the boys kindness, who would lend them a smile when all others looked aside. The Maester, of course, and Theon should not have been surprised. After all, hadn’t Lord Stark, buried inside him and violating him, told him that Robb would soon be allowed a chance?

But Jon still didn’t fully grasp the meaning of this cruel trial. His eyes narrowed as he clutched the sleeve of his brother’s tunic. “Then what are you waiting for, Stark?” he urged. “Let us warn the Maester.”

“Can’t. I can’t.” A soft sniffle left Robb’s lips. “If I did, if the Maester escaped… Father would know that I’m not loyal to him.” He swallowed heavily. “That I’m not a Stark.”

Thick silence fell over the bedchamber, the cackle of the hearth a mere mockery of the chill Theon felt inside him, of Jon’s numb face, of Robb’s barely constrained sobs swaying the feather mattress.

“Next time it could be me,” Robb whispered.

“Don’t say that.” Jon slowly released his grip on his brother’s tunic.

“I try so hard.” Robb gnawed on his lips. “I try… but he’s never pleased.”

This time Jon kept silent. He squeezed his brother’s shoulder, fingers trailing in circles down his arm, the envious way those boys (close as twins) had of speaking without sound. Theon wished that he could share the wordless comfort they gave each other, and his wounds burnt raw despite the balm.

“I don’t want to die,” Robb quietly said. “I’ve never even been kissed.”

Jon locked eyes with Theon, beseeching him for help, and so Theon once more wore his disguise, forcing himself into a smile. It was childish, even ridiculous, that Robb would worry about this of all things, yet the words cut still deeper into him. He was a boy, just a boy, Theon thought, and he shouldn’t have to go through this.

“That is easily solved,” he said as cheerfully as he could afford. “We shall find you a nice girl.”

Robb averted his gaze, looked up to the vaulted ceiling. “Isn’t a girl that I want,” he mumbled.

Theon found himself briefly at a loss for words, and it wasn't the sudden confession, he had long suspected that disinterest lay behind Robb’s high code of honour. No, it was the thought of how desperate the boy must have been to so readily admit it, not minding the consequences anymore. In Robb’s mind, he had already been marked for death, and mayhaps that was why Theon acted as he did.

“Well,” he said, almost absently. “That is even easier to solve.” He wrapped fingers under Robb’s chin and drew him close until their mouths joined in a kiss.

At first the touch was awkward and not entirely pleasant. Pity had driven Theon to press their lips together, but the intimacy, the stubble scraping his chin and Robb’s distinct scent, of leather and sweat, made him want to flee, to hide his disgrace under the furs, and the boy stayed immobile against him, eyes torn wide (was he truly becoming what he most feared?). And then Robb was kissing him back: mouth eager, fingers curling through locks, they shared heat and wine so red on Robb’s lips under the winds of night.

Theon slightly pulled away, sent his palm to cover Robb’s cheek as they regarded one another. “Is that what you wanted?” he softly asked.

Robb nodded, face reddened, lips still parted, trembling and wet. And it should have felt wrong to lie so close to another boy, or mayhaps it should have felt a like conquest, to have his tormentor’s firstborn in shivers under his control. But it felt like neither, merely warm, so safe. Robb touched their brows together, whispering, “Again,” and then, “Please.” Not a demand nor an order, but the desperate supplication of a scared, lost boy.

“More?” Theon let the pad of his thumb brush over Robb’s mouth. He threw a side glance at Jon, who was still kneeling by the bed, watching them intently. “With your brother here?”

Robb tilted his head and exchanged a long look with his brother before Jon unsteadily rose to his feet. For a moment Theon had to fight a nightmarish terror: Jon was about to leave, no doubt, he now knew the beast lurking inside Theon, had seen him turn as bad as his warden. But Jon crossed through the room instead, steps wobbly and swift, and the bed mattress sank lower as he joined them, lying behind Theon’s back.

“Please,” Robb implored, rubbing against the hand placed on his cheek. He spread his lips to nibble on Theon’s thumb, and Jon’s quick breath heated up the skin of Theon’s neck, his mouth hanging a touch away. Both boys were waiting for his decision, and he could walk away, could stop this any time he wanted, so he pulled Robb to his chest, fell into the maddened beat of the boy’s heart while his tongue nudged inside him. Jon fluttered hesitant kisses over Theon’s neck, his touch as shy as his brother’s was fervent, tracing a line from the curve of his shoulder to his jaw.

Rain poured harder outside under the violent wind, the fire of the hearth had dimmed. And Theon couldn’t prevent the morrow from coming. He had to sit back and watch an innocent man die so that Robb might live. He had no reassuring words left for the boys, but while it was still dark, they clung to each other, their fingers twining over his waist, securing him between them.

Another small, worthless victory, but Theon could still provide them with the fallacy of heat.


	3. We've Been Migratory Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mayhaps it had been a cruel jape, Theon thought, Lord Stark testing his son’s loyalty, but with no intention of executing a soul. Surely his warden would not go that far, he would not risk the wrath of the Citadel over suspicions rising like smoke in his mind. Robb had kept his mouth closed, passed the trial, surely that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the bestest of the best, [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife) and [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa). The world shall forever remember your part in enabling this horrible gift to [Neliore](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Neliore/pseuds/Neliore) <3

Light streamed from the tall windows of the Great Hall, yesternight’s storm abated and forgotten. Theon winced as he took his seat, mind still pulsing with too much wine, and ordered himself to relax. So far there had been no sign of trouble, the castle only clutched deeper yet into its hollowed routine: his warden at the head of the table, the boys silently breaking their fast, the phantoms of their little siblings hanging heavy between them. Mayhaps it had been a cruel jape, Theon thought, Lord Stark testing his son’s loyalty, but with no intention of executing a soul. Surely his warden would not go that far, he would not risk the wrath of the Citadel over suspicions rising like smoke in his mind. Robb had kept his mouth closed, passed the trial, surely that was enough.

Lord Stark pushed his plate aside and placed his hands on the table. “Come with me, Theon,” he said.

Being called to attention by his warden had always put Theon in a strange state, as if he were floating outside of his own body (going through the motions). He saw himself rising to stand, the nervous glance traded between the boys, and his legs following, one foot in front of the other, out of the door, through the courtyard, up the stairs and into the solar.

“Theon,” said Lord Stark. He crossed the room and sat down in his armchair by the ﬁreplace. “You said a curious thing the other day.”

“My lord?” Theon’s breath quickened. He could not recall what he’d said, remembered only pitiful moans, whimpers of pain.

“You think Jon would not last a day,” said Lord Stark, taking a silverlined cup into his palm and pouring himself wine.

“Yes.” Theon’s own voice sounded very far away. “My lord.” True, he’d said those words, anxious to make his warden listen, so desperate to protect the boy. For a long moment he stood paralysed by the entrance, heart drumming wildly, cold panic flooding him, before Lord Stark beckoned him with a crook of a finger.

“Tell me, why is that?” His warden’s tone seemed conversational enough, but he did not drink, just swished the wine to and fro inside his cup.

Theon took a few shaky steps forward, shuffled his legs. Even though he was still standing, he had never felt so small and insigniﬁcant. “While Robb is your heir, it’s a standstill,” he mumbled. “The Riverlands wouldn't dare threaten the North. But if you choose Jon…” If he slew Robb, but those were words Theon dared not speak. “It would mean war. Someone will take the boy down.”

“You seem well-versed in these matters.” Lord Stark’s lips pursed into a thin line. “Have you been talking to anyone?”

“What?” Theon blurted out. “No, my lord.” And he wanted to slap himself for his stupidity, for his babbling mouth. He’d been relentlessly reﬂecting on it, how to convince his warden to spare the boys’ lives, and now he had gone and said too much. “It’s just what I think.”

“Is it, Theon? Was no one putting those ideas in your mind?”

“No, my lord.” Theon struggled to keep his eyes looking straight at his warden. He must not give the man reason to suspect him any further. “I only want what is best for Winterfell, what is best for you, my lord.”

“Do you?” Lord Stark softly said. “Well then. On your knees, Theon.”

Theon swallowed, but he knew better than to argue. In the past he had fought, held on to his pride, but sore experience had taught him that a fate delayed was tenfold worse. And now, with the lady of the castle gone, with his warden seeing enemies in every corner, refusal would mean nothing if not betrayal.

He dropped to his knees on the stone floor, and as his warden scrabbled at his laces, Theon still had time to consider just how different this was from the warmth of last night, the boys’ tender touch and that fragile cocoon he’d built for them. Would they even want his comfort if they could see their lord father breaking him, grabbing a handful of his locks and guiding him between his legs? No, Theon thought, they would want nothing to do with him if they knew.

He still kept his mouth closed, his eyelids shut, and he felt his warden’s already hard cock brushing over his cheek, across his bottom lip, pressing in, and that smell which would so often come to him as he lay to sleep, musky and tinted with humiliation.

“Open your mouth, Theon,” said Lord Stark.

The head of his cock prodded Theon’s lips apart. His hand settled on the nape of Theon’s neck, fingers leaving twisted marks under his ears, anchoring his movements until he could only gasp for air while each thrust stuffed his mouth. This did not hurt like being bent over the desk, to be sure, but in a way it was just as bad. Theon was old enough to know the feeling of a girl’s soft lips around his cock, he’d leant over the kitchens wall while a laughing scullery maid took him inside her, and he could tell by each of his warden’s pants the pleasure he derived from pushing himself deep into his mouth. The belting was a punishment, but this here, on his knees, jaw stiff and hands clasping onto Lord Stark’s breeches, it was stripped of all pretence of discipline. Theon was nothing but a hole to be filled, used like a common tavern wench.

“No advice now, Theon?” Lord Stark grunted. “I see how you try to save Robb’s life.” He pressed Theon’s head down hard. “If only it were so easy.” Theon coughed around his cock, his eyes swam with tears as he choked, and his warden’s heavy hands didn't let him pull out. “He’s not a bad boy. If he were Brandon’s child, he’d still have been a Stark. But who knows who she’d whored with at Riverrun.”

Theon’s body had become limp, his thoughts fluttered away, he was plunged into and subjugated, unable to even protest (defend the boys, save them). He fisted the wool of his warden’s clothes, wordless sobs leaking out of him. And he knew he could quicken this torture, draw its end nearer by reacting: flicker his tongue over the member invading him, tighten his lips over it. He had once tried to. His warden’s fingers had gently combed through his hair then, a chuckle left his mouth. “Starting to like it, Theon?” Lord Stark had asked, and Theon had never done that again.

“You cannot change their fate,” said Lord Stark, and as his fingers pulled on Theon’s hair, as he spilt into his mouth, Theon was also filled by a horrifying thought: that it had to be him, it always had to be him, and not because he was a convenient target, not because no one cared, but for the simple fact that violating Theon, who had grown up almost (but never) a Stark, was the closest his warden could get to defiling his own sons without breaking the laws of gods and men.

Lord Stark allowed him to rise and clean himself afterwards, even offered him a taste from his cup. “You did well, Theon,” he said, and Theon hated how the words still held sway over him. He gurgled the wine, willing it to wash away his degradation and the haunting idea which settled at the back of his mind.

“Join me now,” said Lord Stark. “We still have a traitor to put on trial.” And Theon’s heart clenched inside of him, so faint he thought he might retch. But surely his warden wouldn't – Robb had kept quiet, he passed the trial – and yet, it wasn't enough.

The sept bells rang once as Maester Luwin was led out, his hands bound, guards poking spears at his back. The bells rang twice as all of Winterfell gathered closely in the outer courtyard: maids and servants, stableboys and apprentices with their faces solemn and glum. Theon was standing behind his warden, Jon and Robb to his sides. His fingers stiffened over Lord Stark’s greatsword, almost as tall as he was, and if only he could – if only, instead – but he eyed the archers over the castle’s ramparts, their crossbows loaded and ready. No, he would never even complete his blow.

The sept bells rang thrice and the courtyard fell silent. The Maester was brought down to his knees by two of Lord Stark’s guardsmen, a headsman’s block waited nearby.

“Maester Luwin,” said Lord Stark. “By mine own name I condemn you guilty of conspiring against House Stark, of betraying the trust placed in you, of delivering information to our enemies. You are judged guilty of treason. Would you speak a final word?”

The old man’s still calm eyes seemed to be boring right into Theon. “I have always been loyal to House Stark,” he quietly said. “I shall rest easy knowing that.”

The cold wind howled, tousling his hair, as Theon handed the sword to his warden, and he stared hard ahead while a long list of titles was read. He wished he’d been able to block out those sounds like the grey clouds now covering the noon skies, but each word rang clearly, and he watched as the Maester's head was forced down over the coarse stone. “Don’t look away,” he whispered to the boys. “It will soon be done.” Robb’s face was a stony mask behind his lord father, and Theon felt Jon’s trembling fingers sneaking closer and lacing with his own. He thought Lord Stark would lift the great Valyrian sword above his head, but instead his warden’s voice echoed through the courtyard.

“The Maester has not only betrayed me,” he said, “but also plotted against my son and heir. Go on, Robb.” He raised the sword, handed it by the pommel to the horror-struck boy. “This honour shall be yours.”

Theon’s head was spinning. This wasn't right. Hadn't Lord Stark always said, hadn't he told them that the man who passed the sentence should also swing the sword? But to his dismay Theon realised that it was right, it was only fair, because hadn't Robb – hadn't all of them – passed this sentence over the Maester's head? He gripped Jon’s hand back, his mouth dried, and he could only hope for a quick, clean death.

But Robb’s hands were shaking, and it took him three strokes.


	4. Living Under Changing Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon felt a great exhaustion falling over him as he pried the torch off the wall and followed them. He was unable to discern the meaning of Lord Stark’s game. Was he waiting for Robb to succumb, for an excuse to condemn his son a traitor as well? Mayhaps he was pitting the boys against each other to his amusement, and may the victorious be a true Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to the best beta in the world, not to mention the most wonderful person ever, [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), thanks to whom I now have a BA in Westerosi Prayer Rituals. Also, just as many thanks to dear [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa) for her help and support throughout this frenzied mess. [Neliore](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Neliore/pseuds/Neliore), I hope this update doesn't ruin your holiday <3

They found Robb in the crypts as night descended over Winterfell. Dim light flickered from a lone torch set on the wall, and any relief Theon felt quickly vaporised at the sight of the kneeling boy, face as ghastly as those of his long-dead ancestors, clothes still drenched in blood.

“Come, lad,” Theon said, approaching him slowly. “Time to go.”

Robb didn't respond. His eyes were opened, palms pressed together as if in prayer, and when Jon placed a hand over his shoulder, he shot up to his feet. “Don’t,” Robb snarled. “Don’t touch me.” He shoved his brother so hard that Jon staggered back and nearly fell before Theon caught him from behind.

“Easy now,” Theon said. His hands secured over Jon’s sides, helping the boy regain his balance.

“Just leave me alone,” Robb hissed at them.

“It’s mighty cold in here,” Theon told him, as softly as one would speak to a surly child. “And you need to rest, I'm sure. Join us now.”

“Why look for me?” Robb’s voice trembled. “Nothing but a murderer. A butcher.”

Jon inched closer again, and so stubbornly, as if he hadn't just been violently pushed away, curled his fingers around his brother’s neck. “You’re none of these things,” he said.

“Truly, Snow?” Robb snorted, and Theon noted traces of wine on his breath, his teetering stance, the empty pouch by his feet. He must have sat here in the dark for hours, drank and prayed for forgiveness. “Have you any idea what Father tells me? He says that I'm a fool. Because I won’t kill you.”

Jon narrowed his eyes, his jaw tensed, but nonetheless he slid a hand down Robb’s back, wrapping around his waist, slowly guiding him forward. “You are not a fool,” he murmured in his brother’s ear.

“Aren't I?” Robb’s gaze flitted one last time over the stone statues, but he didn't struggle when Jon helped him step after step up the stairs. “I’ll never be safe as long as you live, he tells me… If I had half a brain, I’d have arranged for your death. That’s what he says.”

Theon felt a great exhaustion falling over him as he pried the torch off the wall and followed them. He was unable to discern the meaning of Lord Stark’s game (couldn't understand any of this). Was he waiting for Robb to succumb, for an excuse to condemn his son a traitor as well? Mayhaps he was pitting the boys against each other to his amusement, and may the victorious be a true Stark.

“He’s an ass,” said Jon.

Robb chortled, then a sniffle shook his body and he broke into a spasm of sobs so loud that Theon had to seize him from the other side lest he fall. “You watched me kill a man to save myself,” Robb muttered. “What makes you think I won’t do it again?”

Jon tightened his hold of his brother and touched their cheeks close. “You would never hurt me,” he said. “That I know. You’d die first.”

Robb quietly said, “Mayhaps I will.”

For a while they remained silent as they made their slow way towards the Great Keep. Rain was pouring down the castle ground, their boots soaked in mud, and Robb was shivering even harder without his cloak on. Dried splotches of blood were smeared over his cheeks, down his neck. They kept him tucked closely between their bodies, making sure to avoid the guards on their patrol. While it wasn't strictly forbidden for them to roam outside their chambers at nightfall, Theon suspected their presence would be ill-perceived. It was best to keep their heads low.

“Your lady mother will get the Freys' support,” Jon finally whispered. “She could be here soon.”

“And then what?” Robb mumbled. “Getting rid of you would be the first thing she’d do.” Theon looked around when they reached the castle’s heavy door and hurriedly slipped inside. The refuge from the biting cold was a blessing, true, but they weren’t out of danger until they reached their chambers. His was the closest, up one flight of stairs, and he led the boys that way.

“At least you’ll be safe,” Jon said.

Robb shook his head. “You suppose she’s any better than him? She cares only for her claim to the North.” His words were choked, blurring into one another as he spoke. “I didn't even know they were leaving, Jon, I didn't know. I woke up and the castle was in chaos and Father furious and he told me I was part of it, but Jon, I didn't know. I woke up and they were gone. If she cared she'd have taken me with her. But she left me alone.”

Theon barred his chamber’s door behind them. He crouched by the hearth to start the fire, busied his hands, anything to keep himself from listening. If only they knew how it was for him, and that sick idea gnawing at him of how much worse it would be for them when their lord father lost what little restraint he had. From the corner of his eyes he could see Jon helping his brother take off his boots, could only hear their murmurs, some hushed words of comfort. Once the flames had caught into the kindles, Theon rummaged in his wardrobe for a change of clothing for Robb. His tunic would be too large on the boy, to be sure, but at least it was dry and clean, and Robb would be able to finally sleep.

“Here you are,” Theon said, turning around and finding himself face to face with the boys.

“I'm a murderer.” Robb’s voice was steady and low, simply stating a fact. “I should make amends.”

“How, exactly?” Theon asked. Amends would matter little to the Maester now, he thought, and to his headless corpse hanging down the castle’s ramparts. He handed the tunic to Robb, but the boy didn't reach to take it.

“Make me pay,” Robb said instead. “Punish me.”

“Punish you?” Theon repeated, baffled. “What would you have me do, Stark? Pull you onto my lap and spank you?”

A moment of hesitation. And then: “You could.”

To his shame, Theon’s first reaction was a terrible temptation, laced so thickly with hunger. Hadn't he considered it before, hadn't he wanted to let out his pent-up fury over this boy, to feed on his wails? “Surely you jape,” he said, but could find no humour hiding in Robb’s icy blue eyes, deathly solemn over his blood-caked skin. Jon stood still by his brother, black hair damp and tousled on his brow.

”Do it for him,” Jon said.

And the second reaction, stronger and almost unbearable, was anger: that Robb should wish this pain, that Jon would plead for it, and worse, that he should crave to give the boys what they need. Theon could already imagine himself bending Robb over his knees, stroking the curve of his ass, painting his skin furious red. He clenched his teeth, hands tightening to fists at his sides, and his words spat out harsh.

“Well then,” he said. “Breeches off, Stark.”

Robb’s eyes grew wide. He slowly bit on his lip, throwing a glance at his brother. He didn't move, didn't look so confident anymore. Just a boy, Theon thought, frightened and soiled with the blood he was forced to spill. Spanking him would truly be a jape, treating death like dessert stolen from the kitchens before supper. And his mouth tasted sweet as a rotten fruit with the images of other punishments he could dole out: forcing the boy stomach down over the desk, the shriek of his belt cutting through air, then skin, and his nails digging into Robb’s hips, pushing, pulling, extracting such miserable sounds from Lord Stark’s son –

Theon blinked, and his head swam with fear. How easy it would be, how so very easy to lose himself in his warden’s shadow.

“Go on,” he told Robb. “You asked for it.”

Robb swallowed. “Aye,” he whispered, but still waited for Jon to slightly nod at him before he sent his shaky hand to undo his ties. A blush spread over his cheeks, he cast his eyes down as he slid the breeches off his legs, shivering in his smallclothes. Jon touched his lips to his brother’s hair, a soft kiss resonating with warmth, and Theon breathed hard, taking a moment to appreciate how handsome they both looked, inseparable in their penitent silence, making him wonder who it was Robb really wanted to kiss last night, and why the idea of the brothers together didn't bother him much. If that was what they wanted, if it could make them happy, well, Theon would lead them both to bed himself. There were plenty of men in the castle who wished harm on these boys, he thought, and he would never become one of them.

“Jon,” he heard himself say. “Heat me some water.”

Jon seemed perplexed, apprehensive even, but he scooped an iron pot off the desk and scurried to the back of the bedchamber to fill it from the water basin, leaving Theon free to close in on his brother. “Still want to make your amends?” Theon asked, fingering the laces of Robb’s tunic. The boy nodded, and Theon slowly released the ties, then the buttons down to Robb’s stomach, almost certain that the boy would flinch, tell him to stop. Robb never did. He kept his gaze on the floor, obediently lifting his hands as Theon disrobed him.

Jon returned just as the tunic joined the pile of dirtied clothes on the floor. He placed the pot back on the desk, thick rag wrapped around the blazing iron, the water bubbling from the licks of the hearth. “Good,” Theon said. “Now hold your brother.”

Again a puzzled look, but Jon draped his arms around Robb’s bare chest, pressing himself closely to his back. Theon watched them, their fluttering eyelashes and black locks twining with auburn curls, while he dipped the rag into the scalding water. He let it cool slightly before he touched the moist fabric to Robb’s cheek.

“The Maester died for you,” he said, starting to dab the dry blood off the boy’s skin. “You could've saved him, but you didn't.” The words sounded harsh, but Robb couldn't afford the luxury of lying to himself anymore. “He put his head to the block knowing that he’d always been loyal to house Stark. To you.” The steaming rag softened the dark stains. They were easily cleaned away as Theon scrubbed over Robb’s brow, along his neck. “So here’s what you will do,” he said. When he soaked the cloth again in the pot, swirls of blood spread through the water, a rippling shade of deep red. “You will remember what you did. You will remember why you did it.” He moved to Robb’s chest, felt him shudder in Jon’s arms while the rag washed off the blood and his taint. “And you will not let the Maester's sacrifice be in vain,” he told him. “You will live. This is your amends.”

Theon squeezed the rag over Robb’s heaving chest, but he didn't know if it was water or tears trickling warm and heavy down the boy’s glistening skin. Jon’s eyes were dark, hazy grey behind his brother’s shoulders, his mouth loose in a haggard pant. He looked as if he was about to speak, but – no, he just clasped onto Theon’s tunic, pulling him to them.

And they were crashing together, Theon’s palm still resting just under Robb’s navel, Jon’s tongue floundering over Theon’s chin before prodding into his mouth, brows touching, noses colliding, Robb quivering between them. And they were falling together, tumbling in erratic footsteps to the bed, thick furs brushing Theon’s back and their tangled legs as Jon sucked on his neck. And they were drowning together in a huddle of needy bodies, hands under his clothes and moans in his ears, and he kissed Robb’s skin, licked salty droplets down to his nipple, his mouth wrapping around it. Robb jerked, his back arched in such a perfect curve, and the brothers’ faces were hanging just a touch away.

“We do what we must,” Theon told them, or himself, mayhaps, because Jon and Robb had finally found each other’s lips. “We all do what we must to survive.”


End file.
